


The Inconsistency of Duplicity.

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Akim, Big Eddie, Gen, Tess Amaral - Freeform, minor characters - Freeform, spoilers to start of season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Bishop throughout the years</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inconsistency of Duplicity.

_Spades are the sword of a soldier,  
Clubs the weapons of war.  
Diamonds pay for the endeavour,  
…And Hearts shape the nature of war. _  
\- Sting__

 

  
Peter has a disconnect button, a valuable tool not to be underestimated, in a varied life with questionable employment it’s allowed him to interact with people while never emphasizing one way or another. He’s more of an opportunist than a conman, more of a survivor than a thief, but quibbling over details won’t change the fact he’s a person of interest; it’s all semantics in the end. Peter has been tethered to no one since Elizabeth. In an emotional vacuum he acts the perfect shark, nothing sticks to his sea-roughened skin, it’s only when Peter meets Olivia Dunham he begins tripping over his own feet.

The truth’s an inconvenient fact: he can lie his little heart out if he’s not invested in the people he’s trying to cheat. The truth is, karma’s a bitch swinging a baseball bat, because the moment he _is _invested they all pull the wool over his eyes as if auditioning for _Oceans 11 _.____

Keep your people close, his mother used to say, and Peter’s people are a conniving, duplicitous bunch indeed. Keeping people close only blurs the edges of their multifaceted selves, dulls his eyesight, until Peter’s cut open on sharp cornices, staked out on the embattlements of their personal Keep. He’s angry, he’s pissed and he’s running because it’s his default setting, because Peter needs the distance before he can start seeing clearly again. The police may have labelled him a grifter but he has nothing on Walter or Olivia. Sixty-two hours after he flees Boston, Peter pulls his first con in two years - it’s like slipping into icy water after being beached, his emotions Atlantic gray - all Peter has to do is swim.

 

***  
1/. DAVID

 

Peter meets David Akim in a poker tournament in Hoi An in 2001. At seven o clock pm it’s thirty-two degrees Celsius, the table lit by paper lantern, its yellowed light casting dragons, snarling lions across the wall. If Peter squints he can see the flood mark of 1999, a dark water stain across walls, standing three meters high. Thu Bon lies to the south, the smell of riverbank mud rich in the air.

The table’s nearly over-tipping with twenty-five cent beer bottles, the game rowdy, cheerful despite hidden knives and machetes. A wizened old lady sits on the stoop opposite, reciting _Thân phận của tình yêu _to her grandchildren and the money in the pot’s a small fortune. Peter will never admit it but he’s not here for the game, he’s here for Akim. The stakes grow high, the game thins out and when in an act of desperation Akim tosses a rare gold coin on the table, Peter lays down his cards - four of a kind - the fourth Jack appearing as if by magic. In the poor light of the open street, Peter’s hands are faster than Akim’s eyes can see. He’s a hacker, Akim’s exactly the type of man Peter needs.__

Peter leans into his seat, dressed in cargo pants and a wife-beater, twenty-three years old, for all the world just another kid back-backing. His hair’s damp with sweat. He watches Akim’s face crumble, the way his fingers twitch toward the gold coin; lost to him now, lost forever because in that moment Peter reads the worth of it on his opponents face. Sentimental value, Peter thinks sneeringly, worth more than the gold it was minted on. He runs the coin from knuckle to knuckle and flips it, head over tails. Akim’s face is a study in yearning, trying to track its flight between shadow, lantern, and air.

Peter walks home, knowing Akim will follow.

In the next week Akim raids Peter’s room twice; he’s discreet but Peter knows when his stuff’s been messed with. He lets it slide until the third occasion then enters from behind, rabbit punches Akim in the throat. He guides the other man to the ground, keeps his forehead off the dirty floorboards and tells him quietly to breathe, breathe, breathe. Akim wheezes, tears flooding his eyes, mouth working soundlessly; when his airway finally expands and Akim draws a noisy breath, Peter tells him to stop rifling through his duffel bag, please, tells him he has a job and pulls Akim to his wobbly feet.

The con’s an Internet scam, the safest kind, and with Akim’s skills in computers virtually untraceable.

Akim designs a packet-origin tagged to Sierra Leone (when Interpol finally gets wind of it they trace the scam to Africa and no further), while Peter hacks the on-line addresses of BNB Banks and sends out a series of emails to their clientele. He poses as an ex-British national in the correspondence, desperate to escape the internal strife of his adopted homeland; the media coverage reports on the extortion of ex-patriots fleeing the civil conflict – how the Sierra Leone government strips them of their accumulated wealth before leaving the country - in the correspondence, Peter explains how he’s rich, how he’s about to lose _everything _, and how he hopes the recipient of the letter will provide their bank account details so Peter can deposit his vast fortune into their account, and thus declare himself destitute to the Sierra Leone authorities before leaving the country.__

The letter ends by stating when he arrives in America, he’ll make contact with the recipient of the email, reclaim his money, and provide generous repayment for the kind soul who safeguarded his fortune.

It works, and it works on people who are greedy, who think about the money coming into their account. They provide their bank details online and find the next morning their money’s been transferred out. Their cache emptied. The scam rakes in one point two million dollars and proves once and for all, people really are stupid. Akim and Peter depart amicably after divvying the cash but Peter never returns the gold coin, and Akim, despite having money enough to buy a hundred, never accepts anything else in its stead.

Eight years later this coin will save a life, flipped between knuckles and returned to its rightful owner. Together they’ll track a killer who uses a hundred computer nodes to hide his location (a ploy familiar to them both), but they’ll know where the program’s headed, and warn Olivia so she can save Ella’s life.

***  
2/. ALEXANDER

 

Olivia spends three days in hospital after being tossed through the window of her SUV, there’s a rattle in her limbs, concern for neurological damage. Amy Jessup hangs around like a bad smell and Peter, outwardly friendly, happy to use her credentials if it gets him where he wants, feel his hackles rise every time she steps near. Astrid tells him two days later their case-files have been hacked. Peter smiles, brings Amy coffee the same way he does Olivia, and tells Broyles to get rid of her ASAP, send Amy to Tuscon, Phoenix or the other side of the world for all he cares. She might have been a green agent but she chose subterfuge over asking and either way, Peter doesn’t have the inclination to find out what she’s all about. On the outside he’s charm and smiles, on the inside, Peter’s eyes are dead. He doesn’t relax until she’s gone, until Olivia stands at his side, cane tucked close, her body wounded. But in the interim, they go about business as usual, researching the inexplicable, not trusting Amy Jessup as far as they can throw her.

“You forgot your badge?” Peter says, dumbfounded. Astrid stomps one foot. Peter tells himself it’s because of the cold rather than irritation.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Astrid says sweetly, “but when Walter said he wanted ice-cream, I gathered we were driving to his favourite shop, not an exclusive club!”

Peter scratches the side of his neck. He watches the long line of beautiful people, scantily dressed, and murmurs. “Can you at least show a bit of shoulder?”

“Oh, you did _not _say that.” Peter turns his face to hide the smile. He teases her the same way Astrid imagines a brother would; the mirth quicksilver. The three of them have above average IQs – but unlike the line of semi-naked hopefuls standing before them – they’re dressed for the weather, not a single bared shoulder among them. “How do you propose we get in?” Astrid holds one finger up to stop Peter from saying ‘with a badge’, her scowl firmly in place. Peter’s smile is wicked enough to put Astrid entirely on edge.__

“Did you ever play Dungeons and Dragons when you were a kid?”

“I was never much of a geek,” Astrid deadpans then adds pointedly. “Did you?” She likes Peter happy. Astrid likes the gleam in his eye, the way his hands move, painting circles and exclamation points, incapable of remaining still. He’s so much his father’s son, Astrid thinks. His laugh is audible, letting her score the point off him.

“I’ll never tell Agent Farnsworth,” he winks. “Come on.”

They approach from the side of the line, his arm tossed over her shoulder carelessly, Peter stands at six foot two, beside him Astrid feels protected, curled tightly into the warmth of his side. The bouncer takes one look and hollers. “Back of the line, people!” Back of the line is an hour-long wait; most of the beautiful people are beginning to turn blue.

“Alexander Lacroix,” Peter’s accent is pure Draguignan, Provencal French lilting his c’s, rolling off his r’s. Astrid spent three months in the region; Peter’s accent sounds near flawless, “and Madame Nicola you well know.”

Astrid raises her chin, eyelashes a slow sweep as she regards the bouncer from the shadows of Peter’s long coat. Peter’s teeth show, the stubble dark on his chin, his eyes chips of ice. “Monsieur Carlais requested her presence. He would not be well pleased if you delayed our meeting.”

The bouncer hesitates, confusion crossing his face, eyes darting toward the list in his hand. Carlais owns the private club but his name’s kept off the official channels.

“L’homme est un idiot,” Astrid demurs, her voice rich with entitlement.

The bouncer looks up. The woman’s understated grace, delicate bones protected by the gun at her side, coffee complexion, smooth skin, her eyes dark, impossibly wide. Nicola seems like Carlais’ type, another piece of euro-trash to stain the pavement of a nondescript alley. The bouncer draws all the wrong conclusions. He flicks the rope upward, “Get in,” he says gruffly.

Heat and light wash over them. They separate a little but Peter stays close, his accent dissipating like mist. “Stick with me.” Don’t wander off, he doesn’t say. Astrid’s a junior agent, she left her badge behind because she thought they were buying ice-cream for Walter, before Peter made a criminal leap on the drive over and figured out where Carlais was hiding. She can feel Peter’s illegal Glock tucked into her waistband - a leftover from when he had his hand on the small of her back - and Astrid knows she resembles the women they found, tight curls and small bodies, the language she deliberately chose marking her as a potential victim.

“J'ai confiance en vous,” she says, softly. Peter stumbles, his face goes tight, unreadable. Astrid wants to say it in English, let the truth of it wash over his changeling soul, say it in German, Russian, and Cantonese too. “Don’t kill him,” Astrid warns instead, because if Olivia’s not here to do it, Peter will, “the paper-works a nightmare.”

They catch him; they don’t kill him and Astrid sits at the lab with a bucket of ice-cream, three spoons making impressive headway. Arresting agent, Astrid thinks dazedly, her blood still rushing. Her pen hovers over her initials. She meets Peter’s eyes, the colour an impossible shade where sky kisses the ocean, and signs her name with a flourish. Peter’s mouth curves into its habitual smirk.

“MORON!!” Walter hollers to no one in particular, slapping his forehead as he figures out the formula for cherry-pecan pie. Broyles arrives in the exact same moment and freezes mid-step.

Peter shrugs a shoulder. “I swear he suffers Tourettes.”

“He’s not talking to _me _,” Astrid says simply.__

“Oh, Agent Broyles, I didn’t see you there!” Walter beams and pro-offers a spoonful of ice-cream.

Broyles folds into a seat wearily, his eye scanning over Astrid’s report, he’s used to Walter’s strangeness. “Jessup’s gone, transfer will arrive within a week. Anything stronger than ice-cream, Bishop?”

“Olivia’s desk,” Peter intones and knocks his plate against Broyles’ glass.

 

***  
3/. CAESAR

There are three off-shore accounts holding the money Peter made in Vietnam (Olivia will never find them – she wasn’t lying when she said there was no official file - Bishop’s been connected with a number of illegal activities but nothing’s ever stuck. He’s clean enough to get away with it; dirty enough to make the watch-lists of a dozen foreign countries). Olivia’s annoyed with Peter Bishop before she even meets him, because it’s exactly the type of contradiction to set her teeth on edge.

In Las Vegas he has a drop-box fixed with fake passports, ID, and a GPS.

He steps into Caesar’s Palace in 2008 with Big Eddie at his side, having pitched a sure-fire system to bring the casino to its knees. Two things need to be known; one, if Peter actually wanted to bring the casino down it might have been done, and two, Big Eddie was Peter’s target all along. It all starts with a single sentence, “This is the beguiling Tess Amaral.” And Peter’s head snaps upward, instantly wary.

The light flares - as if lit by fluorescent strobes - and for a second, the sentence is overlaid by the cadence of Walter’s voice. Tess is blond, hair long, flowing down her spine, one eye’s bruised black, her upper lip split open, and everything in Peter _clenches _, coiled tighter than a spring.__

The eyes aren’t the right colour, but Peter doesn’t know what colour Tess’ eyes should be.

He searches her face, mapping the contours and lines. It’s a bizarre descriptive. Until Peter turned ten he thought the word ‘beguiling’ meant bewitching; it’s how he always associated the word, struck dumb, fingers pressed against cool glass. To charm and to amuse; to _delude _and to _cheat _. He’s not sure why any adult would tag a child so; but Tess isn’t a girl, and Peter’s no knight in shining armour.____

He flicks his shades on, turns his head away, as if the unwritten story mottled on her flesh is nothing he wants to hear.

Peter wakes in the middle of night, the scent of tulips phantom in the air, burnt grass and loneliness driving him from his room. He finds Tess in the bar and they become friends. Their relationship’s never sexual, Tess is broken in a way that can’t be fixed, but it’s tangible and it’s a harbor. She’s engaged to Michael Kelly, Big Eddie’s eldest son, a man older than Peter and unkind with his fists. Tess comes to him bleeding, with her mouth cut open, with her ribs caved in, until Peter explodes - _Come away with me, you can’t stay here, please, please, leave _\- because it is and always has been Peter’s first solution. But she doesn’t. She won’t. Tess stares as if she doesn’t understand the language Peter’s speaking. When he bundles her into a car, takes her to a women’s shelter, Tess winds up with Michael Kelly inside of two days.__

He’s pissed and he’s angry because she won’t fight back, not even in a rudimental way, and the terror comes from nowhere because what if _she _ended up like this, too, abandoned by those whose job it was to protect her? Peter’s no knight in shining armour, but he’s been a conman long enough to know Eddie’s only weakness is money, and Peter’s realistic enough to know some problems just can’t be fixed.__

He sells a system, lets Eddie back him for a cool three million, and drops the entire load, sends the family to its knees. Peter be quick, Peter be nimble – he’s a faster moving target than Tess ever was – Peter takes the service elevator and bolts in a car rental, he parks near an airfield in the desert, the engine of his cargo plane idling, and waits patiently with the silencer screwed on. When Michael shows up with a thug in tow, Peter kneecaps him. The thug drops, screaming incoherently and Peter re-aims, lets the black maw of his weapon be the only sun in Michael’s range… Big Eddie personally assigns Michael Kelly to find him after that, and as long as Michael’s chasing Peter across the world, Tess remains safe.

Olivia finds him.

Peter won’t meet Tess again until three months after his return to the States, but the ache’s the same. He dodges Olivia to help Tess then returns to the lab to find Dunham submerged in the tank; tearing her mind and body apart to gather her own answers. He sits on Olivia’s clothing, head propped against the wall, and waits. “Olivia…if you need me…?” He sounds young to his own ears, uncertain.

Olivia’s mouth curves, unbowed by every punch thrown at her. “I know.”

Olivia walks past him as Peter watches, the complete opposite of Tess, fighting her own battles and yielding to no one, flicking her jacket over her shoulders.

***  
4/. CHARLES.

 

“Charles,” his father says.

Peter blinks, completely thrown off balance, and says blankly. “No it’s not.”

His father smiles ruefully. The expression doesn’t sit well on his face. Walter has a dozen smiles running the gauntlet from giddy to snide but his father seems made from stone. “You can check your birth certificate if you want. Peter Charles Bishop.”

“Seems a bit British.”

“So’s your mother,” his father says drily. He flicks the pen between his fingers idly. “What was it on the Other side?” There’s no interest in the question, unlike Elizabeth he doesn’t want to hear about the other reality, Secretary Bishop’s going through the motions; he’s harder to read than Walter - sanity keeps tripping Peter up for one thing – but there’s enough distance between them Peter can read the deception. His father wasn’t lying when he said he needed Peter’s help on the Other side, it’s the nature of the help that’s beginning to alarm him. Peter fled Boston General two weeks ago, enough time to have found some clarity. Walter’s a can of worms he can’t begin to think about; if someone told Peter two years ago his mad scientist of a father had kidnapped him from another reality, Peter wouldn’t have blinked an eye. But it’s been two years of fighting and compromise, of making sure Walter’s dressed appropriately, singing Walter to sleep, learning to cook out of self-preservation. Peter feels like he’s been knocked on his ass, scrambling backwards in the dirt to find distance, and he can’t separate it in his head now, everything’s blurred, out of focus; these are the people he chose to keep close.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He doesn’t know how to get back to what he was.

Olivia’s deliberate omission is something Peter’s beginning to work around. When life is based on deception, truth becomes the highest commodity, the most prized possession. You don’t lie to the people you care about – _anyone _but them. He wants to ask her why, why the omission? How could she _not _tell him? Peter doesn’t know if Olivia even struggled with it; or if she carried the secret with the same unwavering strength she does everything else. What was your name on the other side, his father asks. In the margins of his notes, Peter tiredly scribbles PJB and answers the door when someone knocks.____

“…Yes, you do. I have thought of one hundred reasons why you should come back. To -- to fight the shape-shifters, to take care of Walter, to -- to save the world. But in the end... you have to come back. Because you belong with me.” Her hair isn’t blond anymore but red, there’s a darkening edge of a bruise on the side of Olivia’s jaw, and for a second she reminds him of Tess, an association Peter’s never been able to place. Her fingers are close to his jaw, but they don’t alight and in this room in an alternate reality, Olivia cuts herself open for him, lays it all out. It’s raw, it’s as honest as _Come away with me, you can’t stay here, please, please, leave _. And Peter tilts forward, pulls her into his circle, her kiss grounding, desperate. He wants her. He’ll follow her wherever she goes…close enough so all the edges blur.__

(He won't lie to her about FauxLivia. Peter knows every skeleton half-buried will eventually see the light; he won't lie because she's bound to find out - one way or another - and the only kindness Peter can extend is making sure Olivia doesn't make the connection on her own.)

**Author's Note:**

> The quote preceding this fic was made famous by Sting, who sung a variation of it in “Shape of my Heart”, circa 1993. (For the record, his version went Spades are the sword of the soldier, clubs the weapons of war, I know that diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my heart) However prior to this if you asked any dealer on the main-floor of a casino what the suit of cards represented, s/he would have provided the exact quote at the beginning of this story, be that as it may, I have no idea where the phrase originated from. Peter and Akim’s internet scam is a real-life scenario and with minor tweaks and changes, has been running hot for almost a decade. For the record, its raked in millions of dollars and yes, people really are gullible. Regarding the chapter headings – David, Alexander, Caesar, and Charles – they’re the four kings immortalised in a deck of playing cards.


End file.
